Flesh House

'Ah come on, Laz, lighten up. I've got the evenin' off, She Who Must's catching up on her beauty sleep, her mum's got the wain till tomorrow, an' you're all on yer tod. So: boys' night in!' He rummaged in Logan's cutlery drawer and produced the bottle opener, fumbling the top off his beer with stiff, gloved fingers. 'Get blootered, curry-out from the Nazma, watch some footie on the telly, and break wind to our hearts' content.' Logan popped the top off his Kingfisher, then helped himself to a poppadom. 'You do know I can't talk about the Wiseman case, don't you?' The reporter froze. 'Wiseman case? Never crossed my mind! I'm no--' 'Oh come off it Colin, you're trying to bribe me into talking about an ongoing investigation with Indian beer from ...' Logan checked the label. 'Kent?' Miller grinned. 'And curry. Don't forget the curry.' 'Fat chance.' 'Oh come on, man! Throw a freelancer a bone, eh? Those BBC bastards've got exclusive access to everythin'.' 'Thought you were going back on staff.' The reporter shrugged. 'Nah, freelance pays better. Doing a fair chunk for the Examiner though.' 'Bet the Journals like that.' 'All's fair in love and journalism. Lime pickle?' 'Cupboard above the kettle. Anyway, it's an observational documentary, not a news programme. Not even going to be out till next year.' 'But--' 'And it's a pain in the backside. Everywhere you turn someone's sticking a camera up your nose. You try it for a week, see how you like it.' 'Chicken Jalfrezi, Lamb Biryani, Prawn Rogan Josh, or a bit of everything?' 'Everything.' He watched Miller serving up, the reporter's leather gloves struggling with the clear plastic containers. It would have been much easier to just take the gloves off, but Miller was too vain for that. Logan scowled into his beer. 'I mean they didn't even ask if I wanted to be in it--' 'I get it. Fuck's sake: enough!' He licked a dob of bright red sauce from his leathered thumb. 'Every time I come over here ...' 'I was only saying--' 'And would it kill you to get some decent cutlery? Izzy carves up deid people with better silverware than this.'

There was a noise in the darkness, like metal scraping on metal. Heather froze, lying on her side on the cold floor. Count to a hundred. Silence.